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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683857">Haze</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/fudgeilatte/pseuds/fudgeilatte'>fudgeilatte</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Death in Paradise</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Clumsiness, Common Cold, F/M, Fever, Floreville, Gen, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I tried to do research on that but google was surprisingly unhelpful, Neville doesn’t like being sick, Neville is sick, No Spoilers, Nothing is confirmed though, Set one year from the happenings of S10, Sickfic, Winter in the Caribbean, and he’s a bit of a pain, but Florence stays anyway</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-24</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 01:21:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,245</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29683857</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/fudgeilatte/pseuds/fudgeilatte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"Rules?" Neville stresses as his head flops to the side. "There are no rules, Florence."</i>
</p><p>  <i>"Someone has to make them. And I'd say it's a fairly good idea; you're surprisingly stubborn when you're unwell."</i></p><p>  <i>Neville only smiles as his eyes fall closed again.</i></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Florence Cassell/Neville Parker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>35</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Haze</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Heya. I just wanna point out that I only got four hours of sleep last night because I was writing this, so ... it might not be perfect. It definitely seems a little more all-over-the-place than anything else I've written for these two is. But I had fun with it anyway</p><p>Oh also, I don't know if you can actually catch many (or any?) colds in the Caribbean, given the warm temperature, but we'll go with it</p><p>Hope everyone's okay :)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The door of the bright jeep shuts firmly, slightly rocking the vehicle. But that's to be expected; it has seen its fair share of clueless British detectives come and go over the years, bringing many a police chase on a ground that is sometimes sandy, rocky and completely uneven.</p><p> </p><p>Unexpected and wild. In true Caribbean-esque. </p><p> </p><p>Which, as it happens, is the exact same environment that has proven to be tough to acclimatise to, for Neville. Though, Florence knows he is trying. In fact, he has proven just exactly how determined he is to live comfortably on this island. Sometimes he may fail, but he hasn't left yet. And Florence commends him for that. </p><p> </p><p>That said, she had been dreading the month of December all the same. Not because the island isn't a delight of festivities during this time, but more because she is aware how easily the common cold spreads. </p><p> </p><p>Florence had a strange feeling that Neville would catch it, despite his many cleaning rituals and all the vitamins he seems to swallow like pills in the station.</p><p> </p><p>As she nears the shack, the slightly colder breeze finds her skin, but she is no stranger to it. She had lived on this island for god knows how long, and when one is used to annual balmy temperatures, a slight dip in them is practically nothing. </p><p> </p><p>But she knows that Neville will notice, if he hasn't already. Even with his cold making his mind a place of aching cloudiness, she knows that he will realise.</p><p> </p><p>And she would be lying if she said that she is slighty apprehensive to enter the shack; Florence knows that<br/>
she could find him either flat out and sleeping somewhere, or battling to get dressed and go to work. </p><p> </p><p>Not that the latter would have worked, mind -- Florence always picks Neville up, and she'd have sent him back inside the shack. </p><p> </p><p>When she walks across the sandy floorboards, she inhales gently before letting herself in. </p><p> </p><p>Florence casts her eyes around the house, and she immediately frowns. One of the drawers beside Neville's bed is open with clothes spilling out of it. There are multiple fans on, all creating a loud buzz in Florence's ears. She winces and keeps walking. In the small kitchen she can see an array of empty mugs on the counter and teabags strewn all over the place. There are decongestant tablet boxes littered on every tabletop.</p><p> </p><p>Well, at least that confirms JP's assumption that Neville has become a martyr to the common cold.</p><p> </p><p>Reminding herself that she still has to actually find Neville, Florence walks out onto the veranda. She looks left and right before she sees him.</p><p> </p><p>He is sat at the round table on the corner of the veranda. There's a laptop sat on it, along with a few papers. Neville's hair blows slightly in the winter breeze. Not that he would be aware of that, though, if the way his head lays on the table is any indication. </p><p> </p><p>Florence shakes her head, before slowly making her way over to him. </p><p> </p><p>"<i>Sir</i>," Florence whispers, shaking his arm. "Sir!"</p><p> </p><p>Neville's head snaps up -- something that he probably regrets, seeing as he winces and breifly touches his forehead. </p><p> </p><p>"Uh - oh, hi, Florence," he mumbles, attempting to properly blink his eyes open. He fails and instead attempts to prop his head up on his hand.</p><p> </p><p>For the first time, Florence is met with a sight that is not dissimilar to how Neville looked when he had that sandfly bite at the beginning of the year: his eyes are shadowed beneath, his skin is paler than usual, and the complexion almost has a shine to it. Florence frowns at the possibility of a fever. </p><p> </p><p>"What on earth are you doing out of bed?" she demands, hands resting on the table and a stern eyebrow quirked.</p><p> </p><p>Neville glances up and wishes his exhausted body would just <i>move</i>; he really doesn't want to face the wrath he once faced when, just under a year ago, he discharged himself from hospital and almost ended up collapsing at a suspect's premises. </p><p> </p><p>But that thought is short-lived as the ache in his head returns. </p><p> </p><p>"Uh ... I wanted to work," he all he says as he attempts to stand up and then sways. </p><p> </p><p>Florence rolls her eyes as she lifts his arm over her shoulder and walks him back into the shack. "We have no cases at the moment, Sir. I don't know what you could possibly be working on. Plus, you finished all your reports yesterday."</p><p> </p><p>Neville's expression contorts into one of extreme confusion as he collapses onto the bed. Quite frankly, it's one Florence has never actually seen before; he's never uncertain. </p><p> </p><p>"Really? I could have sworn it was still April ... " </p><p> </p><p>Florence doesn't know what that means, and Neville doesn't even have chance to finish what he was saying; his illness-induced rambling seems to cease when his eyes close again. In a matter of seconds, soft snores around from the detective, even if they are muffled with congestion.</p><p> </p><p>Florence is left to shake her head as she drapes a thicker blanket over the Neville's lanky frame.</p><p> </p><p>_____________________</p><p> </p><p>Trying to gauge his surroundings feels a lot like wading through clogged sand. There's a dull ache thudding in the side of Neville's head and the exhaustion seeps through his veins, his blood. It weighs all of his stiff and burning muscles down. </p><p> </p><p>He tries to turn his head to the side and feels the coldness of his pillow on his feverish skin. He sighs and attempts to roll over completely to the cooler side of the bed; the way his body is searing, Neville wants the cold. Everything around him feels humid and strange, which isn't right, given that they are in the depths of a Caribbean winter.</p><p> </p><p>"It's cold, Florence," he mumbles confusedly. He then feels his body shake as a painful coldness overcomes it. </p><p> </p><p>
  <i>Oh.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>He thought he had a fever.</p><p> </p><p>Now he's just confused.</p><p> </p><p>Through drained eyelids, Neville watches Florence place his laptop down on a nearby desk. He closes his eyes and sniffs, though it brings him no relief.</p><p> </p><p>He frowns slightly as she presses the back of his hand to his forehead. As Florence humms in concern, Neville squirms under the blanket and tries to sit up -- which only results in him falling against the headboard and banging his already throbbing head against the wood.</p><p> </p><p>
  <i>"Ow!"</i>
</p><p> </p><p>"Sir, you really need to stay still!" she complains, but she isn't truly angry; Florence doesn't know why, but she feels the temptation to laugh, and the sight of Neville's blue striped pyjamas doesn't help to lessen her amusement at all. </p><p> </p><p>Neville just huffs as Florence forces a thermometer into his mouth. He was going to apologise for being a burden, but what's the point? </p><p> </p><p>"How'd you even know I was here?" </p><p> </p><p>Florence thinks she can make out what he says, if she deciphers among the muffled and slurred vowels. She wonders when he last slept. </p><p> </p><p>"Where else were you going to be?" Florence asks, teasing him. But then she watches the seriousness down on his expression and she sighs, taking the thermometer from his mouth. "JP said you phoned in the early hours of the morning. He didn't know what you were saying but apparently you sounded bunged up," she explains. "I thought I'd better come and see you for myself. Also, it's a special occasion."</p><p> </p><p>"What?" he mumbles, somewhat panicked, wiping at his forehead and wincing breifly. "Have I missed your birthday?"</p><p> </p><p>Florence laughs as she drapes the blanket back on him and then brings a fan over to the side table. "No, Sir, not yet, but the Christmas market starts in a few days, and I'm taking you. It's your first Christmas here so you're not allowed to refuse. But you have to get better first, and it's against the rules if you don't."</p><p> </p><p>"Rules?" Neville stresses as his head flops to the side. "There are no rules, Florence."</p><p> </p><p>She simply shrugs and pours him a glass of water. "Someone has to make them. And I'd say it's a fairly good idea; you're surprisingly stubborn when you're unwell."</p><p> </p><p>Neville only smiles as his eyes fall closed again. But he manages to open them again as he watches Florence return to whatever she's doing on his laptop. She props her legs up on another chair and stretches. </p><p> </p><p>"What..." Neville mutters, fighting through the tiredness, "...w-what are you doing on there?" </p><p> </p><p>Florence glances behind her shoulder at this, and she's clearly annoyed by Neville's refusal to sleep. The detective simply raises his eyebrow and shrugs. </p><p> </p><p>"I'm writing a report, if you must know," she says matter-of-factly. </p><p> </p><p>"Oh. For which case?"</p><p> </p><p>He hears Florence sigh and he almost smiles.</p><p> </p><p>"The Murphy one."</p><p> </p><p>Neville half-heartedly points at nothing in particular and nods. "Hmm, oh yes. The one where the cousin was the murderer."</p><p> </p><p>"It was actually the uncle."</p><p> </p><p>A pause.</p><p> </p><p>"Yeah. Yeah, that's what I meant to say."</p><p> </p><p>Florence sighs again and tells Neville to <i>really</i> go to sleep this time.</p><p> </p><p>Neville helplessly ascends as the exhaustion envelops him.</p><p> </p><p>_________________________</p><p> </p><p>He must admit that it's the best five hours of sleep he had gotten in a long time. </p><p> </p><p>When Neville wakes, the ache to his head has all but dissipated. He rolls over to test his muscle function and finds that they are considerably lighter and more flexible than before. His nose is still bunged up but he supposes that is to be expected.</p><p> </p><p>In fact, he feels so much better that he stands up. It's probably a bad decision as the dizziness clouds his head and a wave of heat surges over him. But he leans his hand against a wall as he waits for the balance to return. </p><p> </p><p>Shortly, it does, and he continues to wade through the shack until he finds Florence. </p><p> </p><p>When he sets his hazy eyes upon her, he realizes, with a strong pang of remorse, that she is almost falling asleep. Neville purses his lips and walks over to her.</p><p> </p><p>The soft pad of footsteps on the wooden boards snap Florence back to reality. She takes one look at him and then folds her arms.</p><p> </p><p>"Sir, I really don't understand. You go to every length to stop yourself from catching these things and then when you do, you do everything possible to make sure that you don't recover."</p><p> </p><p>Neville just collapses into one of the chairs. "But I feel fine."</p><p> </p><p>"That's exactly what I mean!"</p><p> </p><p>The detective quickly takes note of the annoyance in Florence's tone and leans forward. Holds his hand up and sniffs through a blocked nose. "Alright, alright." He pauses as he listens to the lapping of the waves on the nearby shore. "Look, Florence. We had this conversation when I discharged myself from hospital." </p><p> </p><p>"Yes, and you said that you don't like being away from work. But this isn't work, Sir. You need to look after yourself properly when you're ill, or you're going to make yourself even worse." </p><p> </p><p>Neville regards her softly and then leans back. "Yeah," he quietly agrees. "Point taken."</p><p> </p><p>The pair sit there on the veranda for a while, gazing out to the sea. The sky is black and the stars are dispersed in wonderful patters. The sea is gentle for this time of year, but is a darker blue than it usually is. The silent nights in the Caribbean are a haven to behold.</p><p> </p><p>"Anyway, sir," Florence mumbles, breaking Neville out of his tired trance, "how are you feeling now?"</p><p> </p><p>"Better," Neville confidently tells her. "That sleep did me the world of good."</p><p> </p><p>"Well, I'm glad. You were pretty awful earlier."</p><p> </p><p>Neville pauses at that. He doesn't remember much, particularly because of the cough medicine that had completely knocked him out. He does remember, however, that at one point Florence called him stubborn. Neville fidgets in his chair because he hates to wonder what he did to make her say that.</p><p> </p><p>"And when I say that," Florence quickly says, sensing Neville's uncertainty, "I mean you looked awful. Ill, I mean. Not that you were ... you know ... "</p><p> </p><p>Neville raises an eyebrow. He has guessed, by now. "A pain in the arse?" </p><p> </p><p>"I wouldn't have put it so candidly," Florence says and laughs a little.</p><p> </p><p>"Sorry, Florence," comes the quiet admission. "And thanks ... for, you know, coming to see if I was alright. And for ... for staying."</p><p> </p><p>Florence only smiles and nods at him. "If I hadn't, you'd probably have tried to walk to work half-dressed, and ended up collapsing somewhere along the way."</p><p> </p><p>Neville only sighs.</p><p> </p><p>But then he smiles when he briefly recalls Florence telling him about a Christmas market in Saint Marie. He doesn't quite want to refuse, because he's trying to make himself do more things than he wouldn't usually have done. He wants to embrace his new life. </p><p> </p><p>However, he is aware that a trip to this market will probably involve Florence somehow persuading him to try new exotic foods. He really doubts that they will be offering chicken and chips as a festive cuisine.</p><p> </p><p>But he will worry about that when it comes around.</p><p> </p><p>For now, Neville leans into the blanket Florence brings him, a few remnants of a cold shiver dissipating in the warmth. They both sit for a little while more, musing about the dark night sky and the fragility of the stars. </p><p> </p><p>And Neville makes a mental note to stock up on vitamins.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Anyone want a continuation that follows onto the (predictable and probable) shenanigans of Florence dragging Neville to the Christmas market? </p><p>Feel free to throw me some prompts</p></blockquote></div></div>
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